


Just Stories.

by lookingforatardis



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fanfiction, Fluff, M/M, Phone Calls, Pining, sort of....?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-06 10:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13409115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: I read the words, feeling my heart sink, knowing the story wasn't going to have a happy ending and feeling desperate for one. I didn't love him, I didn't love him. This was fiction. I didn't love him.What happens when Timmy finds the fanfiction? Angst, of course.**NOW COMPLETE**





	1. They Could See

**Author's Note:**

> This started because someone said "imagine being shipped with your costar you have a crush on" in slack, and then the idea spiraled a little into this. Idk guys, I'm sleep deprived. I did one read through, so if there are mistakes my b. 
> 
> I do not own these characters, that would be hella wrong, ethically and morally speaking. Also, like, they're much cooler with their freedom so. It's all fiction, which is ironic considering how many times I wrote "it's just stories" or something along the lines of "if this were a story" lol. But yeah. I'm totally not Timmy so this is fiction. Proceed.

It was a tweet that got me to this point. I don't even know why I clicked it—maybe I was more self-destructive than I had thought, maybe I was just curious, I don't know. I didn't even _use_ twitter, that was the real bitch; I went on maybe once every two or three weeks for like _one_ minute before coming to my senses and exiting the browser. I didn't have the app, I didn't tweet—I hardly used it. How I even managed to see the damn tweet was beyond me. I shouldn't have clicked it, I should have left it alone.

But it was just staring at me—lmfao does @RealChalamet know people write this shit ab him? #crazyshippers—with a link. I sigh just thinking about it; I shouldn’t have clicked it. I stare at the screen, afraid to keep reading. I should just exit out, I know I should—but I can't physically bring myself to. The link had been to a fanfiction site, one I knew well—though I'd never admit it, _fanfiction what's that, don't have a clue._ After I had clicked on the link, I read the tags; that story said "Pining" and "Friends to Lovers," I should _not_ have read it. But the first line drew me in and I was genuinely curious—how _did_ they see it happening, would it be complete bullshit? I mean, it would be at least a little—I didn't actually have any feelings for him, so they were already at a disadvantage. At least, that was the lie I'd been telling myself for months now. _I shouldn't have read it._

It was pretty bad, I had to admit. They didn't get my voice right at all and it was kind of comical. I think that's what really did it, to be honest—it was easy to forget that it was supposed to be about me. But then, _well_. I don't know what happened— _honestly_. I didn't even finish that story, I just moved on and clicked the relationship tag—god, that was weird, we had an entire section for us—and clicked the first thing that popped up. It wasn't like Armie and I actually _wanted_ to be together, we didn't have any feelings for each other—this was all fiction and it was fine. _Harmless, even_ , I'd told myself.

It was anything but.

I should have read the tags, I should have, I don't know, _fucking read the title_ or something. I should have done literally anything except start reading. It took two paragraphs before Armie's hands were in my pants and his tongue down my throat. I hated how I kept reading, how I felt my own heart racing when that Timmy moaned or that Armie pinned him to the bed. I hated how my body started reacting, how I could hear him saying the words as I read them, how I could feel his lips pressing to my skin when they said it. How I felt my breath catch. The story was too real. I felt my heart race when they kissed, the description so vivid that I felt it, memories of Crema flashed before my eyes.  I had to stop reading—it was too close, too much like him, and he was doing things to me that I had literally only dreamt, forcing me to wonder if perhaps these lies I’d been telling myself were just that—lies—but I didn’t want to believe it, even then. Even when reading it made it impossibly difficult to not get hard. That was all I needed, to end up masturbating to a fictional version of us fucking. God, _damnit_ —I shouldn't have read any of this shit. I should have stopped, I should have let that be enough. I should have just walked away, blocked the site, something. I didn't have feelings for Armie, this was absurd. I should not be affected by this crap. It was fake. All of it. _Lies._

Instead of stopping, I just went on and fucking clicked the next story, mouth dry. It was terrible, god I should have just stopped. It was too much—the arousal I had felt at the previous story paled in comparison to the heartache this next one caused. I read it, open mouthed, shocked at the words. It was his point of view, his internal monologue, his heart on the line for me to read. I had to remind myself it wasn't real, that he didn't feel this way, that he wasn't _actually_ questioning his marriage, that he didn't want me. I felt tears sting my eyes when he confronted me—the fictional me—and we fought. I clicked on another story, another fight, this one a little too close to one we actually had during filming. I couldn't help but wonder if the real fight we had left him feeling as confused as this fictional Armie did. I wondered if I had gone back to his apartment after that fight, like the Timmy in this story did, if we would have kissed. What if we did? I could see it—it wasn't a stretch. At that point of filming, our emotions were all over the place, it was entirely possibly that this story would have had more truth to it had I just gone to his apartment. I started feeling nauseous, but I clicked another story anyway. This one was even worse, even more realistic. It was my point of view and it felt like reading a diary or something. Except I didn't love him—I didn’t…I didn't love him. I didn't love him, this was fake, this was a story. I didn't love him.

I read the words, feeling my heart sink, knowing the story wasn't going to have a happy ending and feeling desperate for one. I didn't love him, I didn't love him. This was fiction. I didn't love him.

I clicked another story, one that promised a happy ending for once. That brings us to now, tears falling down my cheeks, phone in hand, Armie's number lighting up my screen. I didn't love him. What a load of fucking bullshit. Of course I fucking loved him.

I knew I shouldn't call him, but I needed _something_. I needed _real_ , I needed something to ground me because these stories were messing with my head and they were too close to home. Aside from that first one, they all felt too real, too possible. The ones ending in tears or fights left my body aching, the ones that ended in kisses leaving me breathless. I had spent so many months telling myself if was platonic, that none of the filming experience left Crema…I'd forgotten how his hands felt on my body, how his voice got low when he whispered, how he'd smile when I did something stupid and young. I forgot how his eyes shined. I forgot how _all_ these things didn't end when we left Crema, how they _still happened_ , how I still couldn't breathe right when he looked at me with those eyes even with Elizabeth right next to us, or how every goddamn time he touched me I felt like I was on fire. I'd perfected the lie I'd been repeating for so long that I'd convinced myself the aching was normal, not a sign of attraction, of love, of desire.

I settle for a text, biting my nails after hitting send.

TC: _Hey man, you there?_

His reply is almost instant—

AH: _Yeah what's up_

I feel my face flush. I wondered if there was a story for this, for the freak out, for contemplating confessing. There were probably two or three, maybe more.

TC: _nothing, just bored lol_

I wondered if he was with her. He probably was, he'd probably see through my text. He always could. The words on the screen still stare at me, a story of us fighting about him being married. I felt the ache deep in my bones. God, I fucking missed him. This was stupid, I shouldn't have read any of this. Now all I could think about was the stories that ended well, the ones that had us together, consequences be damned. I wanted that ending for real so goddamn bad.

AH: _Harper has decided she's going to be a baker so the kitchen is a fuckin disaster and now ford is trying to set a record for most toys thrown at a fathers head_

I can't help but laugh, the sound startling myself. I feel tears come to eyes and sink into my bed, pushing the laptop off to the side. I pull the comforter over my body and try not to think about how badly I wished I was there, with him, watching his little family make memories.

TC: _your fault—you had kids_

AH: _ha! Too bad I love them. Stuck with them now_

I smile at the quick response, my phone sitting next to me and illuminating the space under the blanket.

AH: _what's wrong_

Damn. I take a steadying breath before replying.

TC: _why do you think somethings wrong_

I close my eyes and try not to worry about it. Maybe he was just checking in, he might not know I was freaking out over here. My heart still hadn't quite recovered from the stories and every time I zoned out, I could see them playing out in my mind like my own personal hellish daydream that would never be.

AH: _you never say lol_

I sigh. Rookie mistake.

TC: _im fine armie._

AH: _ooo a period. Sorry buddy you're just too easy to read_

AH: _whats wrong_

AH: _don’t make me get on a flight and come interrogate you_

I feel my nose run as tears form in my eyes, his texts one after the other overwhelming me. I realize it's pointless to hide.

TC: _I wouldn’t stop you._

I push send and feel anxiety rush over me, the tears falling freely. If this were a story he'd come visit and we'd end up under this blanket together. He'd tell me he didn't care about the consequences, that he loved me and wanted me. If this were a story, he'd call, right now, and tell me he was on his way.

AH: _you're scaring me_

TC: _sorry_

I don't know what else to say. I can't tell him, I can't say a word. I shouldn't have texted him to begin with, it was stupid. I should have just gone to bed or something. Or called Luca—he would have talked me down.

AH: _please talk to me_

I ignore the message, a minute passing before he calls. I hit decline, suddenly terrified to speak, terrified he'll hear my voice quiver or crack, that he'd know I was in love with him and missing him and afraid of what it all meant.

AH: _damn it timmy_

AH: _please text me_

I can't breathe right. I remember a story where Armie iced me out and it was _me_ trying to get him to open up. We'd ended up having phone sex. God, stop thinking about them, stop thinking about—

AH: _PLEASE. TALK. TO. ME._

I take a deep breath and realize that it's futile to ignore him. He'd get Elizabeth or Nick to start texting me and then it would be a whole thing—it had happened before. One time not long after filming had ended, I got so depressed that I didn't respond to him for three days. He had everyone in our mutual group texting and calling me before he finally showed up one day, coffee in hand, unshaven, and warm. It was useless, ignoring him. It never worked, he refused to be ignored.

TC: _did you know they write stories about us?_

My heart is racing as I hit send, my hands shaking as I put the phone down and close my eyes. Oh god, what have I done? I shouldn't have sent that, I should have made something up.

AH: _what are you talking about_

TC: _nothing is wrong, armie. I just read one and it was really weird so idk I guess im just in a weird mood. Sorry for worrying you it was stupid_

AH: _what the hell are you talking about? Send me a link right now_

I felt like I was going to throw up. A link? God, no. Which would I even send, I'd read a dozen by now, I couldn't send him half of them, he couldn't know I'd read some of this stuff.

TC: _you don’t wanna read it. trust me_

I don't even have time to put my phone down before he responds--

AH: _like hell I don’t send me a link timmy_

TC: _no._

I feel myself fall deeper into a state of despair with every second that passes. It's minutes before he replies, and by then I've worked myself into a frenzy of fear. He couldn’t know what I'd read. It would reveal too much.

AH: _timmy you're obviously upset please just send me the link so I know what im dealing with please_

My heart stops when I read it, though it races when I get the next text—

AH: _please. I don’t want you to hurt alone. Send me the link._

TC: _who said I was hurting_

I hold the phone tightly while I wait, my body aching.

AH: _you didn’t answer the phone tim. You only do that when you're crying._

God damnit! I hated myself. I hated how easy I was to read, god fucking damnit.

TC: _I wasn’t crying_

AH: _send me the link_

I clench my jaw and tuck the blanket below my head, gulping fresh air to slow my anxious heart. This was bad, this was really bad. I think through my options: either I send him the link and run the risk of him realizing I'm in love with him; or I don’t and he looks it up himself, which is far more incriminating and will _definitely_ tell him I'm in love with him. I sigh and send him the tweet. It's twenty minutes before I get a response.

AH: _this isnt what you read._

I roll my eyes and sit up, hugging my knees.

TC: _actually I did._

AH: _send me the one that made you text me timmy_

TC: _why? God why does it matter_

I'm angry, suddenly. He was always doing this--pushing into my life like this. No fucking wonder I was still in love with him—he wouldn't let me live a single day without being the most important person in my life, without being the one person I vented to. Of course he'd see through the link, of course he'd see through my texts, _of course_ he'd know I only declined calls when my voice was shaky from crying. I hated him so fucking much.

AH: _if you don’t send me the link im just going to start reading all these stories_

I don’t reply. I don't want to talk to him, I don't want to hear from him, every message is pushing me closer to the edge and making it harder to go back. I shouldn't have texted him, I was a fucking pussy—what, I couldn't handle a goddamn story on my own? I was pathetic—

AH: _oh my god. That's what you did isn’t it oh god timmy tell me you didn’t read all of them_

I feel my heart stop. I can't stop myself, my limbs aren't my own anymore, and when I hit send it's not me but another me, a me who I can't control.

TC: _I didn't read all of them._

AH: _oh god_

I throw the phone on my bed and start pacing. This was bad. This was bad. This was bad. I pace until I can't think straight and when I look at my phone again, it's been half an hour. I'm afraid to text him. I take a shower and when I come back he still hasn't replied. I crawl into bed and watch netflix for awhile, still nothing. I pace some more, the anxiety worse than it's been in weeks. I try to stuff the feeling back into my soul but I can't erase the dull ache in my limbs or the way my lungs won't fill quite right or how my head feels like it's underwater. Around 1am I give up and crawl into bed, pulling the blankets over me and letting the fear overtake me. Maybe he didn't want to talk to me anymore. Maybe he realized that I was in love with him. Maybe he thought I got some sort of sick enjoyment out of reading them, which, to be fair, wasn't exactly false. Maybe Elizabeth was with him and they were reading them together—oh _god_ I hoped that wasn't what was happening. I feel myself starting to cry and let the moisture sink into my pillow, not bothering to wipe them away. I pass out at some point, because when he texts me back, it's past 3 and the light is blinding from my phone.

AH: _pick up this time_

I squint at the screen, confused. Then he calls and I understand. I sigh and press answer, tucking the phone between the bed and my ear, gripping the blankets for support.

"I read the stories, Timmy.” A pause that I’m afraid to fill with anything but my breathing. “We're in trouble, aren't we?" he whispers. I don't know why—maybe it's the way his voice sounds as terrified as I feel, or maybe it's the slight tremble. Maybe it's the understanding that he's been reading the same stories I read earlier, or maybe it's knowing that I wasn't alone. Maybe it was just his voice. Whatever it is, it makes me burst into tears. I’m unable to stop them or the soft sob that shakes my body, the sound escaping as my fist presses against my eyes. I pull the blankets closer, tucking them tight around my body. "I didn't realize," he says with a sigh. "God, I didn't—I didn't realize they could see it." His words sink into me, my heart racing, sobs still shaking me though quietly now. I grab the phone and tuck my knees closer to my body.

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely audible, terrified of his answer but desperate for it all the same. I hear him struggling to breathe and wonder if he's crying, too. There was no way—this wasn't a story, this wasn't like that. He didn't love me. This wasn't a story. He wasn't crying. He wasn't.

"Nothing. Never mind," he whispers.

"Armie," I cry, suddenly terrified. He did, he felt it. _Oh god_ , he felt it, too. I knew it. What were we going to do, oh _god_ , what if she found out, the fans were only going to get louder which meant more stories and more attention and oh god he was right we were in trouble—

"Listen, don't think about it," he says quietly, his voice tense. "They're just stories." His voice cracks and it breaks me, my entire being turning in on itself at the sound. "If they're already writing stuff then they won't stop. Everything we do from now on is going to be scrutinized. They'll write about everything. Just don't worry about it, if you worry they'll just write more. And stop reading it. It's not good for you." I nod, knowing he's right but hating that he's saying this instead of what I desperately want to hear him say. I want him to admit to. I want to know without a doubt that I am not alone in my suffering. I sniffle and hear him sigh. " _Timmy_." He sounds as bad as I feel, and I realize this is probably as close to him admitting as I’ll ever get. " _Promise_ me you won't read anymore."

"You promise _me_ ," I say, not even trying to hide the way my voice reveals itself. He's quiet for a long moment, the sound of our erratic breathing the only thing ringing in my ears. If he felt the same way, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself either.

"Don't read them. They're just stories," he whispers. I don't know who he's trying to convince anymore.

"Just stories," I repeat. I feel as much as hear him sigh and it brings a sense of coldness over me, everything feeling foreign and hallow. Something tells me we won't talk about this again. It'll be buried deep down and forgotten, the next time we see each other it'll be as if it never happened, as if we didn't both read all those things and cried over what we didn't have in the middle of the night. I don't know how to go on beyond this conversation, I don't know how to be Armie and Timmy after knowing there's something here that isn't platonic, not just on my side but his as well. I don't know how to move forward. "Armie," I whisper. "I'm scared." I don't know what else to say, and it's the truth. I don't want him to hang up, I don't want this conversation to be over, because it ending means something else ending, too. _Hope._ "And I miss you. I _miss_ _you_." I knew it was useless to have any sort of hope but I did, I _always_ did. I had always pushed the feelings down to hide them, thinking one day there would be a moment where they could resurface and _mean_ something. But this was the moment when they could mean something and the knowledge that _even now_ , they couldn't and never would, was too much. This was never going to go anywhere and I was just going to sit here, every night, without him, hurting.

"God, Timmy," he sighs. "You're killing me." I wish I was there, I wished he would put his arms around me and make it better. I wish this didn't feel like goodbye. I wish those stupid stories where we work out a deal and can be happy were real. I wish it were that simple.

"I miss you so much," I cry, hiding my face in my pillow, unable to stop myself. I miss him, I miss him every fucking second of the day and I was exhausted pretending that I wasn't hopelessly in love with him. It was pointless, pretending. Apparently everyone fucking knew anyway.

"Hey," he says, sad and tired. It's not enough, his words will never be enough, I realize. I don't want words. I want more, and that's the one thing he can never give me. More. "Hey, I'm sorry," he says. He sounds broken, but then again, I was sobbing and he knew it. "They're just stories—”

"Not all of them,” I say, frustrated. Some had too much truth, so much it hurt.

"Timmy, please—”

"I can't keep pretending," I tell him. My head was pounding. I use my sleeve to wipe my nose and burry deeper under the covers to escape the reality I'll be forced to face once I leave this bed. "And for the record, I'm not killing you— _you're_ killing _me._ " He's silent and the only sound is my crying, but I can't be bothered to be embarrassed anymore. I don't care, I need him to understand.

"I can't give you what you want," he says, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry."

"I know," I manage. "I know." I hated him for this, I wish he never called. He doesn’t reply and soon silence engulfs us, all the things we can’t say filling the miles between us.

"Try to sleep," he tells me after awhile. "It'll be better tomorrow."

"That's bullshit." I can't stop the words, they tumble out of my mouth like the tears from my eyes.

 _"Timmy,_ " he sighs.

"It's fine. Just go." I wipe my eyes angrily and take a steadying breath to stop myself from crying more. It doesn't really work. More silence. My heart stops beating in my ears after a few minutes. We're quiet long enough for my crying to stop, for his own labored breathing to taper out.

"I miss you, too," he whispers finally. "Come visit?" It sounds like a question, and I guess it is. Everything is a question now. Everything a line we're not sure we can cross.

"It'll hurt too much," I say, taking a deep breath.

"Can I visit you?" he asks quietly, his voice small, an unusual sound. I think about it, about what it would be like for him to be here alone. There are too many possibilities running through my mind, too many scenarios. I want to tell him yes, but I know I should say no for my own sake. It would only hurt…though, a part of me craved the pain, the way his smile would tug at my heart just right.

"If you bring me that black t-shirt I like," I say. He had this shirt that I stole when I visited him the first time in LA. He said it looked good on me. _Cute_. He took it back, though, and I'd wanted it ever since.

"Okay," he laughs softly. "Is that your only stipulation?"

"Yes. No—no hotels, you stay here." I hear him take a deep breath and I fear he may turn me down.

"Okay." I let out the air in my lungs and feel something dangerously close to hope fester in my heart.

"Promise?" I ask, sniffling and pulling the sweater I was sleeping in over my hands.

"I promise," he says. I wish he were here already. "I'll book a flight tomorrow. But for now, I'm going to go to bed. You should, too. It's late," he says, as if I don't already know.

"Yeah, you're right," I tell him. I don't mean it, I know I won't sleep tonight. He's going to visit, and the anticipation is already making everything better.

"Okay," he says. There's a pause and I think he might say something of substance, but instead I only hear, "Goodnight, Timmy." I let the phone fall from my ear and sit up after saying it back. My laptop is still discarded on the other side of the bed, calling to me. I stare at it for a few minutes until I get a text.

AH: _go to bed._

I shake my head, hating how well he knows me. I reach for the laptop and open it, the story still open.

TC: _already asleep._

I click back through the stories and find one I haven't read, one about us visiting each other. I grab my headphones and plug in, turning music on and scrolling to start reading.

AH: _liar._

This is a nicer story, it feels just distant enough that I can separate myself a little, but it's happier, a fluff piece, and it's about us being together. It's the daydream I don't even need to think up myself.

TC: _don’t judge me_

I try to ignore my phone but somehow can't, not when I'm reading about us like this. It's like gravity, the pull to look at it every time it chimes.

AH: _please tell me you're not reading_

I shake my head and go back to the story.

AH: _you're going to regret it_

TC: _maybe_

I put the phone down and read on, though it starts to make me feel apathetic, the adrenaline of knowing he would visit me soon fading. The words aren't my thoughts or even his and they're not real which starts to hurt most of all. I click out of it and go back to a different story I read earlier, one that had given me hope. Its words are cold now, empty, exhaustive. I text him after closing my laptop and putting it on my bedside table. I hide under the covers and let the desire to sleep wash over me.

TC: _I hate you. Why are you always right_

AH: _try to sleep_

TC: _you're the worst. . ._

Minutes pass before he responds, and I begin to fear that won't at all.

AH: _when I visit, I'm blocking that site on your laptop. you need child locks._

For some reason, this makes me laugh and I hold the phone like a lifeline, reading his words again and again and again.

AH: _goodnight, timmy_

TC: _yeah yeah. Goodnight. See you soon_

AH: _soon_

I let his text be the guiding light as I fall asleep, the single word a promise the stories will never hold—a promise of something real, of something I can actually hold. I’ll see him _soon_ , and the stories won’t matter. Because in the end, I realize, the only story I really care about is _ours_. Even if it’s imperfect, even if it hurts. Even when it’s hard to remember why it’s worth fighting for when it only breaks our hearts, it’s still _ours_ , and nothing will ever take that away.  


	2. Turn the Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie visits Timmy in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a lot of messages and notes about continuing this, but to be honest, I wasn't going to. I didn't have the proper inspiration to keep going, and I didn't want to write for the sake of writing. I was in my car when a cover of Dress came on (I'll link you) and the story started shaping up in my head. I couldn't shake the lyrics or his voice, and knew I simply had to continue the story. Thank you for your support and kindness, it means the world. Enjoy!

_All of this silence and patience, pining in anticipation_

_My hands are shaking from holding back from you…_

 

* * *

 

I stare at the keys, fingers lightly drumming against the stark black and white. There was a slight chill in the apartment, something that never quite went away. I'd always felt that the winter months in the city brought a certain permeating _cold_ that seeped through windows and door regardless of radiators at full blast. The sun was starting to lower in the sky, casting golden and pastel hues over the buildings I'd grown up with. I glance at the time and count hours. I could leave now, I could just meet him there. My phone lights up and I glance down, seeing an email update. I should have never signed up for those—I swipe it away and look back at the piano, pressing down a D-minor chord, letting my hands travel up the scale to E-diminished and listening to it ring before allowing my hands to fall into my lap. I stand and reach for my coat with a sigh, adding layers before slipping on some shoes and grabbing my wallet.

* * *

 

I check the time, stuffing my phone back into my pocket, ignoring another email as I look around anxiously. He should be walking out any second—I stand on my tiptoes and look over heads, seeing a tall figure exit the doors. In an instant, warmth floods my body and I feel a smile tug at my lips. The comfort is overwhelming; I know there are paparazzi to my left with cameras and recording equipment, but I can't stop the emotion from lighting up my face. It'd been too long, and things were so awkward since that night that I wasn't sure what it would even feel like to see him again. Normal, though, was the answer—this felt normal. _Right_.

He walks towards me, unseeing, his head down after noticing the photographers. He pulls his coat up around his face a little tighter and I watch the subtle way he adjusts his shoulders to keep the fabric from falling, his eyes lifting only to ensure he doesn't run into anyone. I hear them shouting his name, _Armie—Armie over here! Armie how was your flight! Look over here, Armie! Is your wife with you? Armie over here!_ I'd always admired how he could just ignore them; though, I knew he didn't really. He heard and registered everything, he just put that mask on to pretend he didn't. He'd reply sometimes, if he felt it would help or if he was bored. He's quiet with these ones; the way he stuffs his hands in his coat pockets tells me he's probably tired and doesn't want to engage. He's only a few feet from me, but he still doesn't see—I can't blame him, I was wearing a ballcap and usual shoes were replaced with boots, my parka completing the clothing's job to help hide me.

"Armie," I say just before he passes me, a small smile on my lips. His body halts as if he’s been yanked back by his bag, his head snapping up to look in my direction, confusion on his face. I watch as he takes his hands out of his pockets, one reaching up to pull the hood off his head as confusion gives way to recognition. A brilliant smile breaks out across his face as his shoulders sink, his feet finally carrying him over to me. I return the smile, my heart tightening at the sight. _God, I missed him._

_Is that Timothée Chalamet? Timothée! Armie! Over here!_ Suddenly both our names are being called out by the small but obnoxious group of paparazzi, their voices stopping Armie's footsteps. I see as much as feel the moment he realizes this will be online, the way his eyes tighten and the smile falls for the slightest moment before returning in full force, this time more of a façade than anything. I feel my shoulders slouch and tilt my head towards the exit. He nods and we start walking, our bodies gravitating towards one another. His shoulder comes to bump against mine and I smile at the ground, nudging him back. We ignore the photographers as we step outside. I can't help but look up at Armie and laugh when the air hits him, the feeling breathing life into my lungs. " _Fuck!"_ he lets out, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. "Get a cab, damn it!" he says, laughing breathlessly and shivering. I can't stop myself from reaching out and squeezing his arm gently, his eyes meeting mine and softening. I turn away and get a cab, the both of us climbing in with Armie's duffle in the space between him and the door, his body sliding closer to mine, presumably for warmth. I give the cabbie my cross street and lean back, looking over at him only to find him staring. He smiles and leans over, resting his head on my shoulder for the briefest moment before sitting back up and adjusting to get comfortable. "What are you doing here? I was going to meet you at your place," he says.

I shrug and look down at my palms. "I wanted to pick you up," I tell him honestly. "I didn't want to wait." He looks at me and sighs, the moment dragging on. I wonder what the cab driver thinks, if he even notices the way our bodies were tilted towards each other, how we were both aching and uncertain in this new phase that was marked by _before_ and _after_ that phone call which revealed too much yet not nearly enough. Ever since _that night,_ everyone was suspicious, everyone a pair of eyes that saw too much and set of hands that wrote secrets in stories. "How was your flight?" I ask him.

"It was fine, no problems," he says. "I'm kind of tired, though," he adds with a sheepish smile.

"Oh, right. Yeah, you've been up for hours—uh, we don't have to go out—"

"Timmy, it's fine. I'll grab a coffee or something. I want to meet your friends," he says. I nod and look out the window to avoid him reading my expression. "We've had this planned for two weeks, I'm not bailing." After _that night_ , Armie booked a flight and told me that this time visiting, he wanted to see "Timmy's New York City"—including my bars and my friends. Armie's PR team heard he was going about week ago and his "only Timmy places" plan apparently raised red flags, so they booked him an interview with some magazine and a photoshoot or something—I didn't remember exactly. Now there would be a blanket excuse to back up his solo-trip, he said. Other than that, he _only_ wanted to see my side of the city. No tourist-anything. Just _my_ city.

Seeing _my_ city started with a trip to this diner my LaGuardia friends and I would meet at sometimes to catch up. I'd made plans already and they were all pretty psyched to meet him. I'd worried he was just doing it to humor me after our conversation that night, as if he was trying to compensate for something by intertwining our lives in a more innocent way. The truth was, I didn't really care what his reasons were—I was happy he wanted to meet them, and I didn't want his jet lag to ruin it. "We can do it tomorrow—"

"Stop, tonight's fine!" His arm presses closer to mine and he adds, "Plus, you said you'd take me to a club tomorrow, and I'm not passing that up."

"Yeah, but are you really sure about that? Because there's dancing—"

"Will you stop? I want to go to your places," he says, smiling at me. "I just, you know, need some coffee for tonight."

I relent and we sit quietly as the cab drives the final distance. I can't help but wonder why he's being so casual, wonder when the inevitably shoe of awkwardness would drop, brought on by the fact that we still hadn't talked about the night he decided to come visit me. I try not to read into it, I can’t stop myself from having the slightest bit of hope. He was visiting me, after all—visiting because of that phone call, because of what we said, what we read. Maybe this was more for him, too. Maybe the shoe _wouldn’t_ drop, and it would just be _good._

When we arrive, I reach for my wallet and Armie puts his hand on my arm to stop me, reaching for some bills out of his own instead. I always forgot about the little things— like how I rarely paid for anything when he was around; it always took getting used to. I lead him into the building, pulling my baseball cap off and letting it swing from my fingers as I walk. When we get past both doorways and enter the hallway where the stairs are, I feel fingers wrap around the fabric of my coat and pull, the hat falling to the floor with a gentle thud. I have half a second to turn towards him before I'm wrapped up in his arms, the feeling immediately overwhelming and intoxicating. I return the hug eagerly, my hands gripping his jacket to pull us closer, my eyes slipping shut against him now that we're safe from their cameras and shouting and stories that are a little too true… His arms feel sturdy around me and I let him hold onto me tighter, not caring that it's uncomfortable to breathe. "Hi," he murmurs, one of his hands trailing up to tangle in my hair, my entire body a livewire. I hold back a moan feel my arms slacken around him slightly, eyes fluttering closed.

" _Hi_ ," I sigh, leaning more of my weight into him. "Missed you," I add, hoping it was okay to admit it aloud. I still wasn't entirely sure what the rules would be for this trip, what we were and weren't allowed to talk about. Missing him seemed safe—we always missed each other. That was fine, that didn't mean love.

"Missed you, too, Timmy," he says, pulling back. His hand on my hair lingers, coming forward to rest at the space where neck meets shoulder for a moment before falling. He puts his hands in his pockets after adjusting the strap of his bag and smiles softly at me. "Lead the way," he tells me with a nod. I realize I've been staring and blink a few times, smiling at the ground and walking towards the stairs with him trailing behind. When we reach the apartment, I let him in and show him around; it's new and he hasn't been here yet. He tells me it suits me, though he comments on it being a little chilly, echoing my earlier thoughts. "What?" he asks when a smile toys at my lips. I shake my head and trail my hand along the wall as I walk to the windows, my favorite part of the apartment despite it being the coldest spot. I turn over my shoulder to see him looking at his phone with an odd expression on his face, leaning against the wall with a hand in his pocket. He glances up and smiles, putting the phone away and pushing off the wall to join me in one fluid movement. He presses against my side and looks out the window with a fond look, saying, "I'm glad I'm here." I turn, pressing my forehead against his shoulder, letting his words sink deeper until the erase every doubt I had about his visit.

"I wasn't sure you'd actually come," I whisper.

"What do you mean?" he asks, lifting his arm to rub circles on my back as I pull away to look up at him. I shrug. I don't want to say it. "Because of the stories?" His voice is somber, tentative. I nod, fearing the conversation yet craving it all the same. "They don't change anything," he says, dropping his hand and letting it slip into his jeans pocket. "They're—"

"If you say just stories, I swear to God, Armie," I shake my head. He tries to hide a smile and looks out the window.

"No, I wasn't going to say that. They're just…not important," he says. "They don't know what it's really like, you know? It's not important what they write." I think about his words, wondering if I agree. They _didn't_ know what it was really like, but some got dangerously close to understanding. I wonder how many he read.

"This is the part where you tell me not to worry about them, isn't it?" He looks at me and smiles, nodding. "Okay. I won't worry about them." I could do that, for these three days he was here—I could do that. I could let go of them and not talk about it and just be here, with him, for just a little while. The reality was better, anyways—reality meant he was tangible and present, warm and comforting. I lift up on my tiptoes and sling my arms around his neck, my heart pressing against his back, Armie laughing quietly. I rest my chin on his shoulder, looking out the window as one of his hands lifts to touch my wrist against his chest. I lean my head to the side to rest against his at the same time he does, and it strikes me that—despite this feeling right—this wasn't something normal friends did. "Do you want to go to my coffee shop or just get some here? Before we leave, I mean. We're supposed to meet them for dinner soon," I say, adjusting my arms around his shoulders as his fingertips trace delicate designs against the back of my hands. He turns in my embrace so he's facing me and leans back against the wall next to the window, my arms falling flat at my sides with a thud. He shrugs and touches my hair with fleeting contact.

"Let's go to your coffee shop. We can meet them at the diner—you said it was a diner, right?" I nod. "Good, I want a burger." I can't help the smile that lights up my face or way I sway towards him when we put our coats back on and leave the apartment. Before we exit the hall, his hand brushes against mine briefly before reaching for the door knob that will take us to the mail foyer, and then outside. The cold is abrasive but familiar and I welcome it against my flushed cheeks. He looks at me and stuffs his hands into his pockets after pulling a beanie further over his ears. His eyes are bright but exhausted, mine mostly just bright I'm sure. I lean my head to the right, smiling as my body follows, our steps falling into a rhythm together as we walk down the street to the right, just a block, to my favorite coffee shop. Something about the cold and the crowded streets makes me bold—I touch his back, letting my hand slip to his arm to tug gently when we reach it to signal him to stop. I let myself trail my fingers down the length of his arm, connecting with his hand for half a second as my hand falls to my side. He follows me in, a small noise escaping him when the warm, intoxicating air hits him. The smell of roasted beans and pastries fills me and it feels like home, the soft chatter continuing on over small, intimate tables, our disruption barely acknowledged. I came here to forget about the world. It was run by this French couple and it felt like my childhood summers every time I walked in. I look at him and feel warm when I see that he's wearing a small smile, taking it all in slowly and thoroughly. I loosen my scarf and touch his arm. "Come on," I say, walking towards the counter. We order drinks and find a table, sitting down with our coffees and shedding jackets. I watch him sip his drink, watch his eyes flutter closed before smiling at me. His legs stretch out under the tiny table and brush against mine—I can't stop my body from swallowing, so I lean forward and take a drink of my own coffee to mask it.

"This is cute. Tables are small, but I like it. It's warm," he says, his hands wrapped around the coffee.

"There's a café in Lille that Pauline and I would walk to sometimes in the summer—it had the same tables—well, different color, but pretty much the same. It always makes me think of it," I tell him, taking another sip and looking around, watching for cameras. He shifts his legs under the table so only one is touching me now, but his knee is pressing against mine, making me a little dizzy.

"Really?"

"Mmm," I nod. "The owners are from Saint-Quentin, which isn't that far from where my dad's from. I guess it makes sense, the style of it being similar," I tell him. He looks at me carefully, his legs retracting though he leans forward on the table.

"I love this," he says casually, lifting his drink to his lips. I watch it lower and his thumb swipe the drops of coffee threatening to run down the side, his lips erasing them from the pad of his finger. "Seeing you here, somewhere you love."

I shrug and give him a smile to play off how much I, too, love that he's seeing me here. When we leave to meet my friends for dinner, I catch him looking at his phone, tucking it away when we reach the diner. I take a deep breath and look at him before walking in, wondering if they'll like him. If _he'll_ like _them_. I guess it didn't really matter in the end. I push open the door and smile when I see a small group laughing loudly at a table towards the back. I look back at him and feel his hand brush mine, just like earlier but a little longer this time, more deliberate. I nod at him as if to ask if he's alright, and he nods back, retracting his hand and looking up. I touch his side to signal it's time to move, and walk towards my friends. We sit down and I make introductions, Armie charming them all immediately. I watch them question him as drinks are brought around, laughing as his eyes go wide with a bewildered smile and a hand through his hair when they start getting personal once food arrives. I bite my lip feel my cheeks hurt from the happiness bubbling out of me. I get another email and check it quickly, deleting the notification when I see the sender and looking back up. They ask him if I'm a good kisser and he laughs, that bewildered, off kilter look on his face again. I look at my friends and see them smirking, their tone light but curious. He chuckles and glances at me, his hands lifting in defense of himself. "Why am I being interrogated? What is this, a job interview?"

"We've been questioning you for like, a solid half hour! Why are you _only_ asking that _now_?" I can't help the quiet laughter escape my lips when everyone at the table says some variation of  " _Ohhh_!" or " _Damn_!" I wonder how red my face is as the teasing turns dirty under muttered breath, suggestive comments about our scenes threatening to join the conversation.

"Okay! Okay, I get it," he laughs, rubbing the side of his face and glancing at me before shrugging. "None of you have ever kissed him? _Really_?" he asks. I feel my body react at the glint in his eyes, how he looks between them with a smirk ghosting his lips. They shake their heads—they're all lying, I'd kissed two of them before drunkenly—and he looks surprised. "They're lying, aren't they?" I laugh, biting down on my lip to stop the sound from filling the entire diner, the others chuckling and looking between us.

"Wow, he _really_ doesn't want to answer this question. Why does it matter? Are you so sure _our_ experience was the same? _Answer_ , Armie-Man. Or are you too scared?" My friend lifts her eyebrows in challenge, her arms crossed with cool control. I smirk at the nickname they'd given him as he shakes his head and looks back at my friends, laughing softly. "God, this is not how I thought this night would go—Okay! _Okay_!" he says in mock defense when they look like they're about to tease him again. Something fills my chest with warmth, a dull albeit appealing ache accompanying it. It rises up to my head, filling the brain tissue with something indescribably _good_. I feel my leg bump his under the table and I'm not sure which one of us caused the action—it honestly could have been either. "He's uh…yeah, I mean, he's a good kisser," he says with a casual shrug, lifting a few fries into his mouth. I stare at the table with the smallest of smiles dancing at my lips.

"What a cop-out answer—"

"You're gonna build that up and that's _all_ you're gonna say?"

"Damn, Tim—how'd you ever get any information out of this guy?"

"Wow, still evading—that bad or that _good_ , Armie-Man?"

I laugh at my friends—it was nice, how easily they accepted him as one of us, how quickly they felt comfortable with teasing and playful banter around him. He fell into the rhythm just as easily—I knew it was a façade sometimes for him, though this felt organic. I knew he didn't mind at all when he looked up with a coy smirk and replied, "Oh—I’m sorry, I didn't realize you wanted me to _describe_ how he put his tongue down my throat, got it—you want _story_ time." I feel myself warm as his arm lifts to go around my chair casually, my friends looking between us with wide eyes and cautious smirks. It feels like a test, like they're all playing each other to see who will back down first and _I'm_ the one who's going to end up losing no matter what; I couldn't see this ending without getting embarrassed.

"Oh god," I mutter, leaning towards the table and taking a bite of my nearly-gone burger and shaking my head at my friends.

"Soft lips, he's got _really_ soft lips. He's pretty loud sometimes—and _damn_ eager hands—"

"Oh my _god_! Stop!" I laugh, covering my face. I can feel his eyes on me but my friends all seem to be eating this up, their little teasing game going further than they anticipated. Usually I wasn't the one to crack, this was a rare occurrence for us all.

"What's wrong, Timmy?" Armie asks, taking a swig of beer with a coy smile. I stare at him hard and try not to smile.

"Yeah, Timmy—what's wrong?" My friends all chime in. I roll my eyes when he laughs softly and looks around the table.

"Please, if anyone has eager hands, it's you," I say, trying to turn the teasing back on him, though I know he probably hears the truth behind my words better than any of my friends ever would. They start to fade out when he smirks at the table, his leg pressing against mine a little harder as if he's acknowledging my words.

"I'll give you that," he says, "But you're definitely the more awkward one." I can see their eyes, all of my friends, trying desperately to follow this turn in conversation.

" _Elio_ is the more awkward one, not me, thank you very much." He looks at me in surprise as my friends go silent. All but one, that is.

"It's true—he's actually not – _ow_!" I glance over at the guy sitting across from Armie and notice that he's been elbowed in the side by another friend. Armie's eyes dart between all of them and I wonder if he's more surprised that they've decided to contribute or if the fact that the person who contributed is in fact, a man. He knew I'd kissed guys, but hearing one of them was probably a different thing for him. He had a face, a name, a person to link those stories to. I could practically see it all go through his mind in the second it takes them to make eye contact before his easy smile returns and he looks at me.

"I guess I wouldn't know," he says, grabbing another fry and eating it with a grin. It's fake, but I don't think they notice. Someone changes the subject and I feel him relax next to me after a few minutes, my hand touching his thigh briefly under the table to tell him I'm here, that it's just us if it needs to be. He always got this lost look in his eyes whenever he was faced with the reality of how different our upbringings were—how free I'd been, how open I was with my friends and family.

When we get up to leave, I let my hand touch his, my fingers skimming the back of his hand gently as we walk through the crowd to get outside. We say our goodbyes to my friends and I get us a ride, the hustle of the New York streets silencing us now that we're alone. "It'll just be a minute," I tell him about the ride. He nods and brushes his arm against mine, hands in pockets and eyes down. "You okay?" He nods, then pulls his phone out and makes a face at something on it, stuffing it back into his pocket quickly. My own vibrates but I ignore it—it was probably another email, I should just cancel those to be honest.

When we get back to my apartment, he goes straight for my room, collapsing on the bed with a thump. I feel the corners of my lips lift and I lean against the wall where I am to look at him. I can only see part of his body strewn out, but there's something inexplicably comforting in the sight. I move closer so I can see all of him, and he lifts his head so he can rest it on his folded arms, turning so he can look at me. He holds my gaze and I feel the fabric of the apartment fray, the air around us prickly like static. I can see his chest lifting and falling with each labored breath and I wonder if he'd mind if I crawled into bed next to him. My phone vibrates and the anxiety of it being something important gets to me; I pull it out, breaking eye contact reluctantly and glancing at the notification.

_Reply to your comment on –-._

I glance up at him and see he's watching me. My thumb hovers over the email. I should just delete it, or ignore it. He was here and he was real, I shouldn't click it. I look back down and swallow. I click the email before I can change my mind and try to prevent a smile from touching my lips. _Wow thanks!!! um im not sure! I think this is probably as realistic as I could make it?? But yah. Who knows lol. THANK YOU! :)_

Hmm.

I look back up at him and see that he's sitting up, hands behind him, eyes watching me. "What is it?" he asks quietly. I shrug and put my phone in my pocket.

"Nothing, just an email."

"From who?" I lean against the door and sigh. He was going to find out. Wasn't that the point of this trip, or at least part of it? To stop me from doing this?

"Not important," I say, afraid to admit to him in person what I'd been doing for two weeks—reading their stories. I push off the wall and walk over to the bed, sitting down next to him and trying to ignore the déjà vu washing over me as he shifts to allow us to sit side by side, his eyes on me as I look at the floor. He puts his hand on his knee and turns it over, palm up. I stare at it and feel like I might vomit, words echoing in my memory—

_He held his hand out like an offering, his body a sacrifice waiting to be taken. Armie gazed at it, contemplating the choices he had to make in this moment and this moment alone. Untouching, he conveys to Timmy his desire, his eyes holding him until finally, with great control, he takes the younger’s hand in his own, holding tight. It’s enough to light matches, these sparks between them—Timmy can’t help the sigh he releases or the desire to lean over and press his lips to his love’s once and for all—_

"Timmy?" I close my eyes hard and breathe, pushing the story away.

I swallow and carefully reach out, covering his hand. We were no strangers to blurred lines, but this was different. His fingers curl around mine and I feel a shaky breath escape my lips when he squeezes gently. I lean against him, my shoulders sinking with the weight of time spent apart. "I kept reading them," I whisper. I can feel the coolness of his ring against my fingers, a subtle reminder of the truth that's burning me alive. He runs his thumb over mine and presses his cheek against my head.

"Of course you did," he says. I look up and see him staring at our hands, his forehead crinkled.

"How did you know?" He looks at me and I regret the question, his eyes burning me.

"Because I kept reading them," he says. I don't know if I've ever heard his voice so low, so emotive. I can't stop my gaze from slipping to his lips an instant before he crashes them against mine, his free hand tangling in my hair roughly, a moan leaving my lips—

_"Timmy?_ You okay?" I open my eyes and feel the air rush out of my lungs. I look at him, then down at his hand palm down on his knee. I blink a few times— _It wasn't real._ My heart's racing and I'm suddenly too warm, blood rushing to my head, making me dizzy. "Oh god, are you okay?" he asks again, more alarmed, his arm lifting to rest on my back, his fingers splaying out against me, making me lean forward until my elbows rest on my legs, head in hands. _Breathe, damn it. Breathe._

I hadn't had an anxiety attack in a while—I almost forgot the way panic fills my lungs, scribbled indistinguishable thoughts racing through my mind in dull color. I feel like I'm shaking—I can't stop—and my hands are damp. I know he's saying something but I'm not entirely sure what—the pounding in my head is too loud. Arms wrap around me, familiar and strong, a hand on my face, cheek against something warm, fingers through my hair, circles on my back. I focus on the beat ringing in my ear against him, his heart, I realize. "Shh, it's okay, hey you're okay, breathe," I hear. The words aren't here, they're somewhere else, the sound distant though I know they're coming from him now. I reach out and grab him, a fistful of his shirt in each hand before I release and seek skin, my hands slipping under the shirt and pulling him closer to me, craving _real_. I shudder and realize the sound of crying is coming from me—the dampness I'd felt being my own tears. He holds me tighter and I feel my heart slowing slightly. I'm trying to breath only when he does, which helps. I feel a warm pressure and realize he's pressing his lips to the top of my head, over and over again, his hand stroking my cheek. "I'm here, Timmy. You're okay," he says. I sink lower against him, my arms heavy. I let out a shaky breath and feel like I'm finally coming back, like it's ending. I start to notice the subtly of touch and know I'm free, the figure 8's he's drawing on my back with his fingers grounding me. I take a steadying breath and nuzzle my face closer to his neck, inhaling, not caring how it makes me look. I knew the conversation this outburst would lead to—I might as well steal comfort where I could now before he withdrew completely at the confession I’d inevitably share. I feel his hands move to frame my face and I let him, my eyes closed. He presses his lips against my temples and I feel fresh tears escape my eyes, his thumbs wiping them away. "What happened?" he asks quietly. I shake my head and take another deep breath, trying to stop crying. I brush his hands away and stand, running my own through my hair before sinking to the floor, my back resting against the bed. I needed to not feel him next to me right now—it was making me crazy.

"I didn't stop reading the fucking stories," I confess. "I got an email, it was a reply to a comment I made, the story had us holding hands on a bed—I…I don't know what happened. Déjà vu, I guess." I keep my eyes closed, my arms tightening around my body.

"Oh god," he mutters. I feel him sink to the floor beside me, his knee knocking mine with the movement as he adjusts himself. I glance over, avoiding his eyes. "I told you to stop—"

"I know." I feel exhausted, all I want is him. I lean into his shoulder, my eyes slipping shut.

"Timmy," he sighs.

"You know, don't you? That I love you," I whisper. I feel his entire body sink, his head falling against my bed. He takes a deep breath and I feel it in my bones, his shoulder I'm propped up on lifting with the weight of it.

"Yes." I loop my arms around his, snuggling closer to him. If I couldn't have him, I could at least have this. "Timmy—"

"It's okay, I know." I turn to press my forehead against him, breathing deep.

"No, I don't think you do." I look up at him and see he's staring off into the distance, his eyes sad. I remember suddenly that phone call—how he'd sounded like he wanted me, too. I'd convinced myself in the nights since that I imagine it, but maybe I didn't. The realization is heady, I think back to his words, damn what did he say—

_I didn't realize they could see it._

Sit back suddenly, the loss of contact pulling his focus to me, his eyes meeting mine in confusion. I allow myself to look at him, to _really_ look. I see fear, his eyebrows slightly lower than normal, his gaze heavy and darkened. He blinks twice and I see his lower lip turn down, the movement so slight I barely catch it. I reach over and carefully place my palm against his cheek. His entire body sighs at the contact—he sinks against the bed, his eyes closing and jaw going slack. He's young, so god damn young. Younger than me, innocent, vulnerable. He's unsure and trusting.

It _terrifies_ me.

I hadn't seen him like this since Crema. I'd bargained that the nights when he let me see this side of him, he was letting me in to help us develop our friendship in service of the characters. I knew it wasn't true, but thinking too much about the nights when he looked like this for only me sends me spinning. I embrace it now, though, and allow myself to consider what it means.

I think about the facts:

He read all those stories when he didn't have to.

He told me he didn't think _they_ _could see._ See what? They're writers, writing us _in love_ —that meant _something_. The only things they see are evidence of something _more_.

He booked a flight against her wishes, against his PR team’s wishes, against everyone’s wishes but mine.

He touched me under the table, he brushed his hand against mine on the street, he waited to hug me until no one else was around.

He held me when I couldn't breathe, he kissed me and told me it was okay.

He was currently a puddle at my side, all because _I_ touched _him_.

My god. _He was in love with me._ "Armie?" My hands shake, I pull the one against him away, a new wave of anxious energy filling me. This time, it's accompanied by excitement, though the guilt is almost enough to swallow me whole. He opens his eyes and looks at me carefully. I lean forward and press my forehead against his, emotion threatening to overwhelm me once more. My chest tightens and I resist tears, the feeling of his hot breath against me almost too much. I lift my hands and let my fingertips touch his jaw, feeling him turn his head just slightly so his nose touches mine. "I love you," I whisper, terrified he won't say it back though I know he feels it, too.

It's agonizing, the moments between the words leaving my lips and his own filling my soul. Each millisecond writes itself on my heart, the memory of uncertainty and longing stretching me thin to encompass all the heartbeats that travel between point A and B of this moment. He leans closer, every centimeter an eternity, until I feel the slightest brush of lips, the touch almost nonexistent, though entirely potent. "I love you," he breathes in space between us, the words reverberating against my lips in the fleeting moment before I lean forward the rest of the way, attaching his confession to our lips for good.

It's different from Italy. It's softer, his touch igniting though slow, my own cautious and uncertain of where this is going. It's nothing like the eager, desperate, playfulness I'd associated with him. By the time his hands travel my body, I feel the space between us like a continent. I lift my body to straddle him, holding his face and looking at him when I lean forward. I let my fingers travel over his face, remembering all the times I was desperate to touch him as _me_. I linger on his lips, gently pulling his lower lip down before skating my fingers down his throat, a shudder raking through his body below me, the reaction fueling me with pride. "Is this okay?" I ask him, my hands slipping under the collar of his shirt.

"I don't know," he admits, breathless, his head leaning back to expose more skin. "I have no idea, this is new for me." I think about the implications of his words—he'd never been with a man, never cheated on his wife, never gave up control. I'm not sure how far I should push him, if I should walk away, if it'll be better to wait, if it'd be better to strip him _now_. I feel his hands fall limp at his sides, his breathing fast. I lean forward and press my lips to his throat, a moan leaving his lips. This was so different—he wasn't like this before, he was never like this. I'd never remembered an instance where he was so needy, so willing to let anything happen _to_ him. I decide to let him decide, to wait for him to make another move, just to be safe. I let my hands fall to his sides, entangling our hands and bringing them behind my back, leaning forward to rest my forehead against his neck innocently, suppressing the desire to grind my hips forward. I wait until our breathing slows before facing him again; the mere fact that he doesn't try to kiss me during all of this alerts me to the fact that mentally he might not be ready for this, even though his body clearly was. I touch his face gently and lean back on his thighs, putting some space between us before dropping my hand to his heart. He raises his own and touches my lips, a deep breath filling his lungs under my hand. "I want you," he whispers. "But I can't, not right now." I nod, knowing this was more complicated than we were willing to admit.

"Okay," I say.

"This isn't a story, we can't just…"

"I know, it's okay," I tell him again, letting my fingers touch his hand against my face before wrapping around his wrist to hold him near. I realize in this moment that as badly as the stories fucked me up, they had been worse for him. I wonder if he even considered a scenario where we were together before reading them, if he'd protected himself from the mere thought of kissing me again, if he depraved himself of the daydreams. I wonder if he _hadn't_ , if the stories simply fed his theories, his own desires, like they had for me, sending him on a spiral of emotion.

"I love you, though," he says, his face twisted in confusion. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" I ask, climbing off him to sit beside him, wrapping my arm around his shoulder and pulling him to me. He still had that look in his eyes, the one that made him younger, the one that needed protecting. "I'm not gonna make you choose," I tell him quietly, my fingers brushing through his hair. "Don't apologize for not being ready," I say. "I get it. I just want you, however you want me."

"I love you," he says again. It makes me smile—I'd wanted those words for so long. "I _love_ you," he mumbles, his voice carrying over a year's worth of repressed emotion. "I love you." It's unbelievably adorable, the way he can't stop saying it, how his voice grows stronger each time, how he sounds more self-assured. If ever I had any doubt about my own heart, his confessions would assure me it belonged to him and only him. I think about the stories, how wrong they all were. It was never like they thought—this was so different, so vivid and raw in a way I wasn't sure words could properly capture.

When he pulls back and looks at me, I wonder how I'd managed to go this long without him. I know in an instant that I would take anything he was willing to give me, even if that meant sneaking around or weekends on the downlow. I would take anything. I'd never felt as though I was so entirely complete, I'd never seen anyone who so beautifully reflected love back at me, who looked and saw and understood and loved and accepted and wanted and…and…

I realize what they mean now, when they say that all the songs will make sense when you look at that person, that all the love songs will be about them, that the stars will be for them, that every story becomes yours because how could there possibly be another love out there when yours exists and is real and live and beautiful and consuming? I knew, no matter what, he was mine for the rest of my life in a way I wasn't sure anyone else ever would be, and I desperately hoped I'd never have to find out if someone else could fill that space. I loved him. And he loved me.

When we crawl into bed, I let him curl his body around me like he did that day in Crema, his arm slung over my torso, his breath on my neck. I don't know why it surprises me that he's clingy like this. In a way, it was just another extension of his willingness to lean on me, to let me hold him when he felt lost, to kiss him first. I let my fingers trace the outline of his hand against my chest, staring up at the ceiling and smiling when he hums against me, his head snuggling closer. I wasn't sure he ever got to cuddle like this—the way he held me made me think even if he did, it was different. "Hey, Armie," I whisper, knocking his leg with my own.

"Hmm?" he mumbles, his arm pulling us closer.

"I fucking love you," I say. I can feel him smile against me, his soft laughter filling my soul with enough happiness to sustain me for weeks.

"Fucking love you," he says, his voice muffled as he leans against me, pressing his lips to my throat briefly. I smile and feel myself drift off to sleep, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t worry the dreams will be better than reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cover of Dress: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BxsBVrwzn74 (give him some love, he's a freaking incredible musician)


	3. Epilogue

_Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, was slowly bringing these two beings near each other, fully charged and all languishing with the stormy electricities of passion._

_-Victor Hugo_

* * *

 

There were moments in life where everything fell into place. Call it fate, call it the universe, call it a cosmic force or eternal being—whatever you believe in had caused the dust of the eternities to be scattered about in such a way that paths emerged from the great unknown. Like puzzle pieces, these paths fit together to reveal the beauty of life and love to the lucky few who chose to look up and notice. The moments of calm surrender and joyous laughter, the way time faded out when certain people so much as breathed near you—the cosmos had their hand in all.

There had been fleeting moments of both their lives where they felt it—when Armie's children were born and he held them in his arms, their fingers latching onto one of his; or the first time Timmy stood on a stage and felt the spotlight warm his bones—moments where everything fell into place and a level of certainty that _this_ was where they were meant to be could be felt in their very souls. When they awoke in each other's arms that first morning, the certainty settled in over them, protecting them from the anxious _good morning_ text on Armie's phone. When they made coffee and Timmy hopped up on his counter, legs swinging out to touch Armie's, there wasn't a doubt in either's minds that _this_ was where they were meant to be.

Together.

Armie's magazine shoot was that afternoon, which allowed for the two to lounge about the city together for a few hours. Timmy took him to the bookstore in SoHo he frequented in high school and let his hands trail along the shelves when they walked. The delicate balance of chatter and music delighted Armie and struck him as indescribably _Timmy_ ; it made him bold and he reached out, skimmed his own fingers along Timmy's arm and connected their hands when they were sure no one could see, released his hold only when they turned corners or saw potential onlookers. When they reached the second floor and found their way to the back, he moaned in Timmy's ear when he was pressed to the stacks, cold fingers slipped under collars before they stepped back. They feared eyes that saw too much and cared too little. Timmy tucked his hair behind his ears as they walked out and let his hands linger in the curls when he noticed Armie watching, as if to say he imagined Armie's hands in his hair, not his own.

Their quiet laughter resonated in the space between city dwellers and tourists alike as they conversed down crowded streets in search of a park where Timmy read their script once. The feeling of absolute certainty ebbed and flowed with the steps they took that day until finally, it settled in on them for good. The sound of the other's voice and gentle touch of shoulders was enough to silence their fears of what came next. That same feeling soothed them as they stood on the edge of a snow shelf in hushed tones while a text from Elizabeth threw Armie for a loop. The feeling was there when Timmy's giddy laughter boomed in Armie's chest as a snowball was thrown by a child, resulting in a playful fight that left them both breathless and cold as they laid on the ground with wonder in their eyes, fingers skimming sides. The feeling followed them to the coffee shop with a fire place where they tried and failed to warm their bodies. It followed them down the hall as Timmy's hand pressed into Armie's back, and again when they locked the bathroom door, a stolen kiss on frozen lips which lingered until the chill was too much. It followed them outside, into the cab, into the apartment where their confessions would always echo on the walls.

The certainty stretched thin when Armie spoke with his wife before the photoshoot, though Timmy felt their love was _right_ when Armie smiled only for him as the photographer snapped pictures. He thought of summer, of the days Armie would spend on a stage a mere cab ride away from his apartment. He thought of the documentary date nights and take out that was bound to come, of the late nights in his bedroom where no one would know their secret, not even _them_ , not even the writers. The feeling of _right_ accompanies them when they leave, when Timmy let his hand linger too long on Armie's shoulder, when they pressed the other against hallway walls when no one could see.

It was there in the club when they did shots and felt alive with the thought _mine_ as they gazed at one another over bodies on the dancefloor. It was there when they stumbled home, when lips attached to necks and moans escaped lips. It was there when they held one another that night, when the anxiety returned and threatened never to leave. When the only thing pulling them through was the knowledge that they could never go back, not because of what they'd done, but because of who they were, and who they'd always been meant to find.

When Armie whispered, "I've never been so sure of anyone," Timmy felt it in his soul and knew the words were as true as if he had spoken them himself. They allowed themselves to get caught up in the sound of their own hearts beating, and when the sun rose, they laughed at how long they'd stayed up talking, basking in the love they felt too was too strong for words.

As they made breakfast on Armie's last day, Timmy watched in quiet revere. He thought back to the story that started it all, the one which instigated their time together, their confessions. He thought about all the writers and their theories, and smiled. He let his hand trail along Armie's bare back and placed a kiss to his spine, and thought about how they would never know the depth of their love. It went beyond words, beyond stories, and always would. It was fingertips against skin, it was midnight phone calls, it was dancing to records and getting drunk on each other's smiles. It was the calm, the quiet, the cold that only they could erase. It was seconds and sighs and blood rushing and tired eyes. No words would ever capture the amorphous way time passed underwater in Armie's eyes, or the reverb of Timmy's touch under blankets. Stories would always be just that—stories. This love, their memories, they would live on in the continuum of the universe, etched in the dust which led them to one another all along, hidden in the way the light hit Timmy's bedroom door or how Armie stood as he waited for coffee. Timmy thought about how the writers would never know the real struggle, or the anxiety they faced in every breath taken together, the pain in Armie's eyes when he was falling asleep and unable to ignore the lines crossed. They would also never know the euphoria of touch, the lingering glance in crowded rooms, the understanding and laughter and peace and love.

Armie turned for a kiss as they waited for their food and caught the look in Timmy's eyes. As he trailed his hands over Timmy's thighs, Timmy got lost in the layers of blue which came together to recreate oceans in his eyes. Armie thought about walking away and knew it would never happen, not really. He saw the way their lives had been intertwined for good and wanted nothing more than to continue down the winding path with the man before him.

There would be time for shouting on rooftops and reckless touches for the world to see. There would be declarations and kisses that didn't have to be stolen. As they gazed at one another, thinking of the impossibility of their love, the certainty that this was where they were meant to be comforted them beyond comprehension. This, they would come to understand, was merely the first chapter of their story. There would be pages of them together on streets with hands tucked safely in the other's grip, pages where silence was no longer tolerated, and boldness was celebrated. Their story had only just begun, and by the time the writers would realize, Timmy would have forgotten all about their tales, because with every sigh against one another, with every memory they made together, they turned another page and dove deeper into the only story of them that would never end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride. Thank you again for reading and to those who read it first- your words of encouragement mean more than you know.  
> xx

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr! :)
> 
> Also: I wasn't referring to specific fics in this. I was just talking generally haha so if it sounds like a specific one, sorry. It was probably my subconscious shipper heart putting it in.


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